CUE: breathe sigh of relief as sidestep fallen tree. or
Lesson #241 from The Bowels of Corporate America
situation: promotional page goes horribly horribly wrong for some unexplained reason, three days after deadline. possible weird esoteric photographers’ rights infringement, screw-up on production department side, or similar. details not important. reader will note sole fact of import is Magazine Page SNAFU [Situation Normal, All Fucked Up.]
person[s] possibly at fault: Editors A, B, D, or E. Production Persons A, C, or E [alphabetic assignations by level of command/importance/salary.]
person[s] not remotely at fault: Editor F. that’s the heroine of our story. me.
Editor F’s reaction on assessing the above facts as a whole: phheewwwwww.
conclusion to be derived from above lesson: the corporate world sucks out your soul with a bendy straw and then burps it up later.
back when it was just a twinkle in a genius mind …
in my post on friday, i mentioned one of my favorite phrases: you’re going to be the first against the wall when the revolution comes. and mark noted in the comments that it reminded him of a radiohead lyric – “when i am king, you will be first against the wall.” and as much as i love radiohead, i don’t think they coined the phrase.
so in my usual curious way, i started wondering who did. and from all my five minutes of google-searching and phrase-origin-searching, i came up with this:
**
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy defines the marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation as “a bunch of mindless jerks who’ll be the first against the wall when the revolution comes,” with a footnote to the effect that the editors would welcome applications from anyone interested in taking over the post of robotics correspondent.
Curiously enough, an edition of the Encyclopedia Galactica that had the good fortune to fall through a time warp from a thousand years in the future defined the marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation as “a bunch of mindless jerks who were the first against the wall when the revolution came.”
**
as usual, douglas adams wins again. and so, to celebrate, i will now quote my top three favorite lines from the HGG:
3. “so, we’re all mad then.”
“yes.”
“nice day for it!” said a passing lunatic.
2. “you may sing to my cat if you like.”
1. “there’s an infinite number of monkeys outside, and they wanted to chat about a bit of hamlet they’ve worked out.”
we love you, douglas adams.
gracious thank yous
all hail jason for his gorgeous expertise with the new banner. a designer and a gentleman, methinks. baked goods will be made in humble offering. think this is gorgeous? check out shiverydelicious for more eye candy.
my blood boils
i’m a really tolerant person. really. but there are certain things that make my skin crawl and my blood boil and make me ashamed to call myself human. like people who think homosexuality is a flaw and can be trained away. preferably through christianity. and people who think homosexuality is a one-way ticket to hell. and people who think homosexuality is a vast, evil conspiracy and they are the last bastions of morality. and worst of all, worst of all – congressional laws that set us back 20 years in the civil rights battle for sexual freedom.
i’m going to be a lawyer one day, you bigots. and no, i can’t do anything about your beliefs. and no, i can’t eradicate you from the face of the planet. nor should i. but i’m going to spend my life making damn sure that the only thing you’re entitled to is your opinion. which are like assholes. everyone has one.
to wit: you’re going to be the first against the wall when the revolution comes. and i’ll be there to tell you how much society will continue to put up with asshole bigots like you. because you’re allowed to be a bigot, you self-righteous morons, but you’re not allowed to tell me or anyone else how to be a good person. and then i’ll shake your hand and tell you to have a nice day. because that’s the kind of tolerant revolutionary i am.
there are places i remember …
reading aj’s catalogue of houston homesickness made me remember all the places i’ve lived, and how many cherished little tidbits they hold. since i’m rather bored, tired, and have nothing going on in my life that’s worth writing about right now [if you couldn't tell from the two or three days worth of garbage i've posted], i’ll do this for you. perhaps you’ve lived in some of these places, and these memories will trigger your own. or perhaps you’ve never been to some of them, and it’ll inspire you. perhaps you’ll just indulge me because you know i have a million-watt smile and/or you’ve slept with me in the past. at this point, i really don’t care. here you go, folks. a trip down my incredibly well-preserved memory lane.
abidjan, cote d’ivoire, 1986-1989:
the brown-tiled swimming pool in our backyard.
the smell of citronella plants.
clay dirt between my toes.
marchee de cocody – the local sell-all market where surprisingly accurate cartier-knockoffs could be purchased.
girl scouts, with my mum as troop leader.
the stale smell of african money.
the angry winds and tides at grand bassam beach.
running screaming out of the water because we thought we saw the head of the father who’d drowned there three years back, saving his son.
the clatter of tiles under little kids’ feet, at the brand-new international school.
being bullied for the first time in my life, by the american ambassador’s daughter, pinky, who was a mixed-raced adoptee from south africa. my mother telling me to be compassionate to her, because her life was hard and would only get harder. understanding, then, what compassion meant, and always thinking of pinky when i find myself faced with people that are perpetually angry at their lot in life.
houston, texas, 1991-1994:
spring forest middle school – those blue doors.
memorial drive.
napoli’s pizza.
the feeling of setting my foot on stage for the first time in my life.
the crunch of acorns under my bike wheels in fall.
learning what it means to be considered unpopular (seventh grade).
learning how to become popular (eighth grade).
learning how little it really matters what other people think (twelfth grade).
subdivisions.
tennis courts.
the bayou.
lupe’s tortilla.
wide open freeways.
memorial city mall.
first kisses.
fighting with my mother.
saved by the bell.
spanish moss in the trees.
toobing in new braunfels.
jazz dance class.
hoop earrings.
meeting erin.
going to church.
being boy crazy.
liking country music.
feeling like an american teen for the first time in my life.
kenya, 1994-1997:
red dirt.
blue skies.
coffee fields.
warmth.
remembering what it meant to be the kid i’d been raised to be, shedding the trappings of american teendom.
kenyans.
the pizza at the downtown hilton.
the cars zipping around donkey carts on waiyaki way.
the prostitutes on moi avenue.
going clubbing.
the flagstones leading to the chem lab.
making out in the student center.
the lockers – red letters on gray metal.
the samosas at the cafeteria.
5 shilling deposits on your coke bottles.
“jobless” meaning “lame”.
“getting off” meaning “making out”.
village market on the weekends.
siegfried and his white button-downs and his piercing stare.
gelatos at ‘arrleccinos.
tiramisu at cafe latino.
saturdays at marnix’s – the smell of his bed, learning how to shoot, eating his mother’s pasta.
seigfried’s house – the tinge of mothballs, the dark paneled rooms, making out in his sister’s guest house.
trips to the coast.
villas on the beach.
rooms open to the ocean.
pineapple juice in the mornings and mangoes for lunch.
walking kirby [then, only six weeks old and the bounciest jack russell ever] down the beach, watching him chase crabs.
wearing the same ratty budweiser tee-shirt and the same red-and-white kikoi for 2 weeks straight.
watching the sun rise at 5 am with a 102 degree fever.
beach bonfires with friends.
sarah lawrence, 1998-2004:
beth. always, always beth. first roomie, last friend standing, beth.
hubba hubba chili dogs, port chester, ny.
slave to the grind coffee shop – specifically, their hot chocolate.
womrath book store – and cwl.
the musty smell of the phoenix offices.
late nights at the phoenix offices.
autumn foliage for the first time.
wool sweaters.
pea coats.
hiking boots.
feeling invisible.
hating the faerie queene.
stone buildings.
fucked-up friends.
tuckahoe.
weekend trips to vermont.
sicilian pizza.
sitting on the roof.
meeting cwl.
heart break.
egypt on christmas breaks.
late nights.
messy kitchens.
snow.
down comforters.
insecurities.
disaster.
drama.
small moments of crazy joy.
going to the beach in new rochelle at six am.
late night drives to macdonald’s and raceway diner.
rhonda the honda.
starting smoking.
driving up the taconic at breakneck speeds.
drinking.
photography.
new york city.
finally being happy, senior year.
this has been a long memory yearbook, i know. perhaps i didn’t write it down for you, my readers, at all. perhaps i wrote it down so that i would remember, because time is passing so very quickly these days, and all the places i’ve been and all the people i’ve loved and all the moments i’ve owned – i want them to last in my memory. i want to file them in the right place, i want to earmark them for future reference. they are my nostalgia, they are how i fill in the private story of my life. not the one that goes, “and then i moved here and here and here”, but the one that goes, “and that house smelled like jasmines in the afternoons, and there’s the fence that the dog got stuck, and this city always shimmered in summer, and this room is inextricable from the smell of this boy”.
when i return to these places, and take curves down the same roads, and walk on the same flagstones, i want those memories to come flooding back to me. nostalgia and the five senses blend together to create a powerful moment – i never want to lose those. i always want to stop in the middle of the street because a smell has wafted that jerks open the file cabinets of memory and pages come flying out, reminding me of x, when living in y, and feeling z.
after all, what else was my childhood for if not to create such a catalogue of moments?
you only *think* i’m glamorous.
i wake up around 7:45 every morning. usually, this means i actually get up at eight. if i’ve slept au naturel, i usually grab something off the floor, throw it on, and pad out to the kitchen. i make my tea and toast [prince of wales black tea, one equal, one icecube. whole wheat toast, buttered and jellied]. i take my tea and toast to the living room and watch katie couric bounce around on the today show. i smoke my first cigarette[s] of the day. with about ten minutes before i have to leave for work, i go back into my room and get dressed. usually, some sort of pants/shirt/low heels combination. this takes roughly seven minutes, and i spend about five more minutes in the bathroom, putting on contacts, messing with my hair, and staring into the mirror, thinking, go. go to work now.
then i make sure the necessary objects are in the appropriate purse, and i leave. i smoke one more cigarette on the way to the subway, a five minute walk. then i read my book on the train. i prefer the yellow-seated trains because they have those front-facing seats right next to the window – i’m quite partial to those. it takes about 25 minutes to reach my stop – the 49th street NW station. as i come out of the subway car, i do a time-check on my cell phone. it’s usually about 9:22 at this point. i walk up to the street, and light another cigarette. i stroll the two blocks to my building. sometimes i stop and get an apple turnover from the street pastry vendor.
i walk into my building, smiling at the security guard, and i get in the appropriate elevator. i try not to stare at my elevator-mates, because, as seastreet said, elevators are all about the fucking. i exit at my floor, say as cheery a hello as manageable to our receptionist, and walk the 200 paces to my little office.
then my day happens. i work. i push papers around. i talk to my friends online. i eat lunch. i take one smoke break. i chat with my bosses. i try not to look at the clock. sometimes, i leave at 5. sometimes, 5:30. sometimes, 6. then, i walk back to the subway, smoking a cigarette. i go home the same way i came, only more tired. the last half-a-block to my house, i stare at the pavement and avoid the cracks, giving myself something to occupy myself for those last few paces.
when i come up the stairs to my apartment, i’m usually so happy to see my living room that i’d hug it if that was possible. if the roommate is home, i say hello, but there’s no one there who’s thrilled to see me. so i go into my room, stare out the window for a minute, and change out of work clothes into comfy clothes. then i have my welcome-home cigarette, and think about things like: dinner, television, what the sun looks like setting over queens, whether or not the orange in the fruit basket has taken a wrong turn to funky-town …
my day is so boring, i can’t actually be arsed to write it all down for you.
in joyous news, our prodigal darling is returning home to many open arms and cheery hugs and fabulous summer fun. a collective sigh of happiness has been breathed. now i’ll have someone to go through the freakish hell of NYU graduate school applications with … as well as many other adventures.
this is how to settle things.
petithiboux: face it. prince wills is mine.
petithiboux: you can have harry.
fulminous: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
fulminous: That’s HORRIBLE to even SAY!!!
petithiboux: NO. i simply will never concede that you get wills.
petithiboux: ever.
petithiboux: you can have every other sexy, rakishly charming, boyish devil of a british man alive.
petithiboux: you can have ewan, and rupert, and orlando, and… and … whoever else you want.
petithiboux: but give me wills.
fulminous: I get all of them.
petithiboux: you selfish greedy bastard.
fulminous: Yes!
fulminous: Muahhahahahah!
petithiboux: wills is MINE.
fulminous: Here’s what we do.
fulminous: When he gets here,
fulminous: you stand on one end of the street, I stand on the other. We both call to him, and see who he goes to.
fulminous: And no sneaky-sneaky, going and hiding a steak in your pocket or something.
petithiboux: …. fair enough.
i crush you with my internet-love and then let you up for air.
as much as i loathe to let this charming british lad go, it’s round about that time of month again – the pH internet crush declaration. be assured that once a crush, always a crush. unless you let your blog get fat and lazy and you stop bringing me flowers. then you’re screwed.
here’s where i wax poetic, since this month’s internet crush is a boy, and pH is nothing if not boy crazy. what does a girl seek in an internet crush? well, what she seeks in a normal boy, of course, except less with the sex. funny! charming! smart! a gentleman and a scholar!
there are some necessary distinctions, of course, between crush and internet crush. in real life, the right crush knows when you’re dressed up enough to open the door to the restaurant for you, but also knows when to let you use power tools without getting patronizing. he knows how to answer the phone when your mother calls. he doesn’t leave your bathroom messy. and so on and so forth.
the internet crush reels you in with subtly different tactics. he leaves exactly the correct comments on the exact right amount of posts. not too much, as to resemble crazy internet-stalker, horny fifty year old weirdo, or similar. the internet crush is witty, but is profound and respectful when you post on a serious matter. he appreciates the good naughty post without leading the comment board someplace creepy and perverse. perhaps he emails you, in that quiet aside kind of way, to tell you he likes your blog. perhaps he doesn’t, and thus remains more mysterious. the internet crush’s own blog has to be fascinating, of course, because we’re not complete meglomaniacs just seeking effusive flattery. he should write wittily but honestly about his own life. also, the internet crush can not be a fourteen year old boy in tuscaloosa. sorry.
without further pompous ramblings, i present a gentleman that, in the short while i’ve internet-known him, has convinced me of possessing all the traits of the honorable line of internet-crushes that go before him. he may not be the most well-known bryan adams out there, but he’s certainly become my favorite of the two. he’s wicked smaht, in that i-play-with-robotics-for-a-living-but-can-still-joke-about-it way. he makes me laugh out loud, like matt and greg aplenty. and he plays golf! which, as we know, is a secret fantasy of mine.
in short, the better of two bryan adams, i’ve got a crush, my baby, on youuuu.
and no, you can’t join me
three facts need to be examined:
1. i’m still at work, and probably will be for another 30 minutes.
2. this week woke up on monday and decided to kill me. i survived.
3. tonight’s my first night alone in the apartment.
as a result of these three things, this is the plan for tonight:
go home. strip. run bathtub bath. select calming music [perhaps dave brubeck album, perhaps mingus, perhaps bossanova]. pop open bottle of bubbly chilled prosecco. pour in glass. walk to bathroom. turn off lights. light one candle. add girly bath ingredients to piping hot water. slide in. take sip of bubbly drink. slide in further. take one long deep breath. light cigarette. take deep drag. sip bubbly.
reeellaaaaaaax.
